I am done done done with my classes classes classes for a week week week!

Woot woot fricking woot!

Man alive, is it a nice feeling.

Last night was my final final for the week, and after 3 hours of struggling my way through the snarls and brambles of both my written Massage II final (apparently an ice pack has only been made correctly if it's only 1/3 full of ice--1/8 a bag of ice or 1/2 of one would apparently be catastrophic and could potentially incapacitate your client!!! um yeah) and the practical part as well, I am happy to say that I came out of the other side in one piece.

While we were all cramming right before class and gorging ourselves on cookies that I'd baked the night before (baking=destresser), I had suggested going out for beers after class, and people just climbed on and humped the shit outta that idea (all but two people from our class actually came and jammed around the table and did rounds of shots together). So as soon as the practical exam was over, we were all eager to get the hell outta there and had a hard time controlling our fidgeting while our instructor ran off to calculate our final grades and our grades in the class.

Upon his return, he commenced with telling us each our grade. When he got to me, he gave me a bare-knuckled stare, and said, "You got a 95% in the class. You actually got a 94.6%, but I was generous and rounded it up." I wanted to be like, "Oh, no you di'n't!!!" and put my hand in his face and waggle my neck at him and his attitude, but I wasn't quite sure whether he was joking with me (since he's so goddamn serious all the time, and since I sometimes think he's a bit sweet on me--*batting eyelashes*--then again, I tend to make things up, so perhaps it's moreso just bemusement) or whether he had emphasized his "generosity" in an attempt to downplay the fact that I COMPLETELY KICKED HIS CLASS'S ASS, DESPITE HIM HAVING PIGEONHOLED ME AS A TOTAL SLACKER WEIRDO OF A STUDENT THE FIRST TIME HE MET ME.

So I looked at him and shouted, "Just get over the fact that you want a piece of this!" and wobbled my pelvis at him, smacked my ass, and quickly ran out of the room and off into the moist moist night and into a free round of shots and some beer and cigarettes with some damn fine people that I've grown to really like over the course of this semester.

I really wish I'd use this departing technique more frequently...

This, This, and This

I haven't written much lately on this blog. Shame on me.

But last week was mega-stressful. And next week's forecast is the same, seeing as it's finals-week.

(Please, dear eye, no twitching next week, k?)

But here is some stuff you should know:

1. I cannot wait to be done with my current A&P instructor. Please, whoever is listening, lemme have someone good next semester. And not the guy who does the powerpoint presentations at 500 mph. Thank you.

2. I heard that the anatomy instructor I had last semester (the one I had a crush on and dubbed The Bane of My Existence?) is in fact a big softie underneath all his lame macho talk. Thank god--I was starting to think my Asshole-Radar was broken.

3. I'm actually gonna really miss my Wednesday night massage classes this semester--they are weirdly centering, and when my week's stressful, they are kinda like a warm fuzzy blanket I can pull up to my chin, warming me up and letting me feel snuggly and comforted.

4. Did you know you can get staples put into your ear on your weight-related reflexology point and it'll help you lose weight? True story.

5. I hate muscles.

6. I spent $25 on flashcards in the hope that I'll learn to love muscles.

7. My Massage II instructor is a really touch-oriented person (like me); last week, when I was asking him a question about our quiz, he stood so close to me that his arm and thigh were pressed against mine, partially, I think, because he has trouble hearing out of one ear--probably explains my smittenness (the touchy-feeliness, not the hard-of-hearingness).

8. I've gotten requests from two different people to set up regular massage-appointments with them. I must get a table already. *Sigh* Until then, if you want me to practice on you (which'll typically require you sprawling out on my bed), gimme a holler. I could use the added practice. (You must book me three weeks in advance for a happy ending though--just be forewarned, my kind of happy endings involve me shouting HURRAY, smiling, and throwing confetti into the air while in the distance, lovers run across a beach into each others' arms.)

9. The body still fascinates me. (Even though I hate muscles.)

My New Theory

So I have a new theory. It came to me as I was driving home from Massage II class last night:

The way a person massages = their personality in the sack.

Hear me out. This is either gonna sound far-fetched or, conversely, like I'm over-stating the obvious. I haven't quite decided which is more likely at this point though. So bear with.

As it bothers me a bit that I've started kinda sexualizing a specific individual's touch in my Mass. II class this semester, I was giving it more thought on my way home last night.

We're told bluntly and honestly from the very beginning that it is not abnormal nor is it unusual for a client to be sexually attracted to a therapist or vice versa. (I try to find a bit of solace in this fact.) Touch is so majorly a part of intimacy and sex that it only makes sense that being massaged by someone while you're laid out nekkid on a table might mistakenly become sexually charged.

But why is it that only the touch of certain folks has that electrical jolt to it?

Not once, in all my previous massage experiences, have a felt a goddamn thing sexually when it comes to getting a massage.

Now this semester, totally different story.

Why why why?

Herein lies my theory.

Perhaps the reason certain folks' touch becomes sexualized to us in the context of massage while others' do not is not because of any complicated sexual awakening of feelings towards them (which wouldn't make that much sense seeing as, in most cases, you know not a thing about the person, other than what they look like--and that fact doesn't necessarily match up with the charge you may feel) but because we perceive and link the way they move, the way they touch, their rhythms, etc., to the way they would be in the sack.

Oversimplified? Maybe. Far-fetched? Perhaps.

But it kinda makes sense as well. If touch and sex are so interwoven in so many ways, then why would we NOT (consciously or subconsciously) make this connection between how a person touches in massage and how they'd touch in the sack?

Case in point: my massage instructor from last semester. The man lays into you immediately and (almost unbearably) forcefully without any build-up. He is a Russian fellow, and he massages with all the brute force you'd expect from a burly Russian man. But there doesn't seem to be that much gentleness or careful consideration for the body as some people have. I'm sure it's there, but it's there in a not-so-obvious way. When he massages, it moreso feels like he's barging in on your body than working up to the force with which he is handling you.

I felt not the slightly twinge of eroticization (is that a word?) when I got massaged by him.

This semester: a completely different story:

_____'s hands are all, like, gentle sweet talk and sidelong glances with the occasional winked innuendo tossed in your muscle's direction, and then suddenly it's WAPPAMMMM and that muscle's pinned down and writhing, squirming gleefully underneath his hands, completely at his will, putting up an energetic, feisty, but only half-hearted fight to come out on top despite the fact that you know it's TOTALLY enjoying it and a minute or two from now will be more than happy to chill out, lay back, and let him do whatever he damn well pleases to it, and It. Will. Love. Every. Fricking. Minute. Of. It.

Yes.

And apparently I'm all about that.

Granted, a lot of your massage technique has to do with what you've learned and being able to do what you've learned accurately. But the other half of the massage is more artwork--each person is completely different. No two touches are the same. And you work your magic in such a way that your body sings it out. Your massage has its own personality, and that's something that you won't be able to change much about. And, just like with sex, not only the client but you as a massage therapist may find yourself excited and spent once it's all over with (my experience with Big Blond Stoner Boy being a perfect example).

I think about some of the other folks in the class too, and it gets me thinking about the general trend of touch in there: the guys are almost always more forceful and assertive (though some of them rather clumsily so) while the majority of women in there err on the side of being too gentle and not aggressive enough. Also intriguing, no? I'd suspect that almost every one of the way-too-light massage therapists in there probably are the more subservient types in the sack--they like (or dislike, but still choose) to just lie back and let the other person be in charge. They're not assertive, and they don't demand to be pleased the way they deserve to be.

Then you've got me--I am bossy and forceful when it comes to massaging. At first I erred on the part of being too gentle in class, but lately, I've been feeling like I'm growing into my massage finally, now that I know that, even if I put all my force into it, chances are I'm not gonna hurt someone. I feel like I'm coming into my own, finding my technique, and I'm really starting to enjoy myself now. I've been told I have very strong hands on several occasions, and I chalk that up to a compliment, seeing as way too many women that have massaged me have featherweight touches. I'm very much assertive nowadays, and I like to feel like I'm in charge. I like and want your muscles to melt underneath my touch. Even when I don't know *what* the hell I'm doing sometimes, I do it self-assuredly in the hope that it'll at least convince the person I'm massaging that I know what's going on. (Not to mention that I like to find tender spots and make people scream as I work the shit out of them until they're singing in joyous ecstasy--a bit of the S&Mer in me, perhaps.)

And yeah, you can make the leap here, and (unless someone would like to argue, or unless someone would like to find out for themselves and *then* argue) it'd be a fairly accurate one.

Perhaps this connection is so obvious that it doesn't require me even remarking upon it. Perhaps it only just makes sense. And perhaps it's not so much the connection between massage and sex as it is massage and personality (which is then reflected in how a person is in the sack). But whatever which way, it's totally fascinating to me.

And needless to say, I am the BEST MASSAGE YOU'LL EVER HAVE.

Wanna Be My Sugar-Daddy?

Yes yes yes. I haven't blogged here in almost two weeks. I should be drawn and quartered. Blah dee blah.

It's been busy, what can I say? This week was chock full of quizzes (sometimes even two in one evening). And scheduling scheduling scheduling.

But here's the skinny on what I've been learning, in case you've been crying yourself to sleep every night not knowing...

Last week I learned about hydrotherapy in Massage II class. I got to freeze the calf of my partner with a frozen styrofoam cup until she couldn't feel anymore. Sometimes learning massage seems more like a bizarre lesson in S&M than a therapeutic modality.

I also got my feet frozen, learning that, yes, indeed, the stages of cold ARE in fact: 1. the sensation of cold, 2. exquisite mother-fing goddamn holy crap pain and burning, and 3. numbness. Unfortunately, Stage 2 lasts quite some time, especially in the tender parts of your feet. They DID get so numb though that my partner could run her fingernail up and down them and I couldn't feel a goddamn thing.

This week, we had a brief introduction to lymphatic massage--it is an absolutely fascinating technique because the pressure you use as a massage therapist is equivalent to the pressure a nickel exerts on your skin if you were to set one on your arm. It is bizarrely light and when you're performing it, it seems to be an absolute impossibility that the movements could be having *any* effect on the system, and yet, it helps to completely detoxify the whole body and gives the recipient a generalized sense of euphoria if done correctly. It's also been known to make folks look years younger if done on a regular basis, particularly on the face. It requires an obscene amount of patience though because the massage strokes are so very slight. My massage instructor used me to demonstrate the neck lymphatic massage on yesterday, and I do admit, my neck felt delightful this morning when I woke up.

In other news, I was told yesterday by the individual I was massaging that "I have very strong hands." *Snapping my enemies in two with my bare hands and picking up large boulders to throw at people just for fun*

Classes classes and more classes next quarter with an even more pain-in-the-ass schedule, especially for winter:

• Physiology II--Mondays, 6-9pm


• Anatomy II--Tuesdays, 6-9pm


• Massage III--Thursdays 6-10pm

I really need to get me a sugar-daddy (or sugar-momma, for that matter) so that I can quit work and devote all my time to studying and massage. *sigh*

Palpate This

We're finally learning how to palpate in my Massage II class, and it's both an extremely exciting and extremely frustrating adventure.

Palpating is the action of examining a person through touch, a seeking out of any abnormalities with the hand and fingertips. It is probably one of the most integral abilities a massage therapist needs to develop in order to be successful. And learning it just reinforces how amazing the power of touch can be.

When palpating, the body becomes a sort of Braille to the massage therapist, and strangely, they kind of "blind" themselves to all other senses, directing all these seeing-energies into their sense of touch which allows them to "read" their client's body kind of like a book of Braille, seeking out explanations of what is going on in there, reading their muscles and tendons and the history and wear placed upon them.

Or perhaps a better analogy would be the story of the Princess and the Pea--as massage therapist, you are trying to fine-tune your sense of touch so that you can easily find that pea, regardless of whether or not it's hidden between twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down beds.

Learning to palpate makes you very quickly realize how unfamiliar you are with the nooks and crannies of your own body. Someone who is skilled at palpation can very quickly zero in on a pea-sized knot of muscle tissue that you didn't even know existed and which, when pressed upon, can make your whole body twitch in pain. And you can do the same for someone else, stumbling across a node or trigger point that they weren't even aware of. We are so unfamiliar with the composition of what we lug around every day that it it's almost startling when you come to realize how little intimacy you have with what hinges you so physically to the world around you.

It is such a powerful thing to be able to palpate a person, but it is also extremely frustrating because *it is not easy*, and as someone who is in their first year of massage therapy, it is even more difficult because you're not yet familiar with what you're *supposed* to be feeling when you palpate (muscles, tendons, organs, bone, etc.) so you often find yourself *thinking* you've stumbled across an area that needs work when in reality, you're just feeling something that's *supposed* to be there. For example, last night, being the big nerd I am, I'd be like, "I feel something! I feel something!" and it would end up being a fricking rib. Talk about anticlimactic.

But I am getting better--I found a couple trigger-points in T____'s back last night in class. If you hold down a really surly, painful trigger point for a long time, it will jump and buck beneath your fingertip, kinda like a wild horse or two people fucking. Unfortunately, I could not get any of hers to do this, which was a bit disappointing. But I was pleased that I am starting to read people's tender areas and muscle aches through my fingertips. (If you would like me to poke at your trigger points sometime, just lemme know, as I would love to see if I can make you get all twitchy underneath my fingertips--it's so much fun.)

I am a very very touch-oriented person. And, though I'm not sure why, I often find myself feeling starved for touch, like I've gone for weeks or months without having quenched this thirst. So just the simplest placement of a hand on my shoulder, a hand on my thigh, a hug, etc. is filled with a potent and powerful surge of emotions and meaning to me, be they good or bad, sexual or non-. Some days I feel as though I'm going to crack open, as though my emotions will come pouring forth, just from the simplicity of a hand against my skin. Some days such a small gesture can literally make me just want to cry.

I feel so much more connected to other people and the world around me when I can feel it running beneath my fingertips. So I really am finding myself at home in these classes, just being able to touch and be touched. And I like the ease at which our boundaries are slipping away as well--we don't even think twice anymore about reaching out and touching someone, palpating them, massaging their shoulders, even just extending a gentle hand to place on their back in reassurance. It is quite a lovely thing, these connections.

Learning to palpate is kinda like being a seer of some strange sort, like you have divine powers that no one else has. It's kind of like divining someone's history just from touching them, like you're reading them and understanding them more closely than they are themselves. And it has a kind of strange intimacy to it.

I am also coming to realize that this is probably what makes me feel all mushy and gushy sometimes towards my instructor--not any huge erotica, but just the intimacy of his very careful touch, and the fact that he uses touch with such ease that it seems almost otherworldy and, thus, extremely powerful.

Touch is such a terribly intimate thing, and we all read it differently, sometimes reading it correctly, sometimes misinterpreting. But regardless of how we read it, it is unavoidably a connection to the person doing the touching. And the connection never fails to be an amazing and powerful one.

I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me and I have some weird subconscious teacher-student sexual fantasy lurking somewhere in the deep recesses of my skull, 'cause now I'm finding myself occasionally jonesing for a quick jump in the lap of yet ANOTHER instructor (or sometimes just to pet his head like a little puppy). Not *all* the time. But every once in a while. AND I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE WHY.

First it was The Bane of My Existence, and now this. What in god's name is the matter with me?

The weird thing is I've never *ever* been one of those folks who gets fiendish crushes on their teachers--not in high school, not in college, not in grad school.

Perhaps I've just acquired a taste for the sexy bite of brilliantly intelligent, strong men? (I suppose this wouldn't be that much of a newly-acquired taste though, since those're the kinds of folks I've *always* been attracted to.)

Perhaps I'm weirdly attracted to the brisk, anal-retentive, cut and dry, authoritative nature of folks because it leaves me intrigued about the soft spots that must be lying somewhere underneath it all, especially when they occasionally give a brief glimpse of these soft spots through little glitches of insecurities and/or weaknesses? Perhaps this is attractive to me because I do the same kind of things, so I'd like to think that there is, in fact, a good and beautiful person underneath it all?

Perhaps I am attracted to them because they offer up a hard-headed challenge to me and there's something extremely erotic in the idea of making someone who appears so strong and powerful bow down submissively before me?

Either that or I'm suddenly just becoming masochistically attracted to people whose personalities run completely counter to my own and who I'm torn between hating and wanting to lick.

I'm starting to think the latter may be true. Which is bizarre and disturbing but actually explains a whole helluva lot.

My Massage II Midterm

Last night, for my midterm, I partook in a massage à trois, set to the tune of "A Clockwork Orange with Birds." Two on one, baby. And I was the one.

Beat that.

It Was the Best of Days, It Was the Worst of Days

I.

Yesterday was my first day back to school after two weeks off. It was supposed to be Monday, but I received a call in the afternoon saying that somebody's important somebody-or-other had passed away and they were cancelling all classes for the day out of respect. Problem was that we were supposed to be having two quizzes yesterday: one in phys and one in anatomy. I kept giggling to myself and thinking about how pissed my instructor was going to be about losing yet *another* 4 hours of class (we had Monday classes off for Memorial Day or something too at one point) and having us miss our quizzes, which would also mean rearranging our midterms and everything (one of which is this upcoming Monday).

Apparently karma struck back for all my giggling: We're having not just two quizzes on Monday but our midterm as well.

If you can explain how this is logical and "beneficial to the learning process," I will give you a quarter.



II.

Apparently I have a freakishly well-developed muscle in my forearm. I was told this by my instructor yesterday in class.

This would be super-cool, and I would walk around bare-knuckle- sucker-punching people in the throat with the sheer force of this sweet-ass muscle, *IF* it was so well-developed due to something cool, like a) my professional tennis career, b) my weekly professional arm-wrestling competitions, or c) excessive masturbation.

But you know how I developed it?

From spending too much time typing at work.

*Sobbing*



III.

I made someone fall asleep while I was massaging them--for the length of the *full* massage, complete with sleepy muscle-twitches (which I thought were "Holy fuck that hurts" twitches, but apparently I was wrong).

Only in massage therapy would making someone fall asleep be a compliment.



IV.

So, I buddied up with LR Man last night for Massage Class. I don't know why but he *keeps* asking me to be his partner, despite the fact that he has a tendency to act like my massage was completely ineffectual when all is said and done.

However, in all the times that we've buddied up, he's never actually made it around to giving me a back massage. Every single time I've massaged him, he's gotten one (since he always specifically requests that I spend time on his lower back due to back pain). And every single time, as I mentioned, he says something to the effect of "that was... {*long doubtful pause*} good... thanks" as though I could have just pummeled him with a large stinky salmon, and it would've been just as effectual. But last night, last night, I finally requested--nay DEMANDED--that he work on my back.

And as soon as he did, I had a total Last Massage Therapist Standing kind of moment--I wanted to run off to my little voting room and blurt to the camera "I'm definitely more massage therapier than... *gratuitous climactic pause* LR MAN!!!!!!" And then we'd battle it out on-stage, the audience choosing who is the more massage therapier and I would *SO* totally get picked as the Capital One Audience Favorite for the night. (Yes, I've been tuning in to Last Comic Standing way too much.)

Don't get me wrong--I will readily admit that I'm not "all that" yet when it comes to giving massages. But I will openly admit this to anyone who asks.

LR Man, however, critiques me as though he's been giving massages for hundreds of years and has received countless gold metals for his massage techniques. But in reality, his massage yesterday literally had me wanting to shudder and shout PLEASE DEAR GOD, JUST STOP TOUCHING ME!

You know how when a fly gets into your house, it flits about all haphazardly? How you stand there thinking to yourself, Where you going, fly? To that window? OH NO! You totally aren't--you had me fooled, you wiley fellow! Instead you just darted into the kitchen! And now you just made a quick, defensive left-right and zoomed upstairs! Brilliant! You know how you just wanna shout, Pick a direction and go with it already, you crazy fly-motherfucker? (I'm guessing I'm probably the only one who actually stands there and thinks all this--but bear with me.)

Fly = LR Man.

His hands were all over my back but in no specific rhythm or sequence. They would start heading towards the spine and then (what what!) dart insanely to the left for apparently no reason and then jam into my scapula and then thrust their burning lack of rhythm into the crook of my shoulder. It was sheer and utter madness.

And he utilized absolutely no massage technique. My cat piston-paws me just as effectively. Take a couple of wooden spoons (ala Ross on Friends) and start jamming away at somebody, and your "technique" would be about the same.

It was {NOT} {GOOD} {AT} {ALL}.

In fact, it hurt sometimes. And other times it felt like sweet sweet death. And yet other times, I felt like salami (for some reason).

I typically would not criticize a fellow student--we're all learning, and we're all in the same boat.

But HE TOTALLY DESERVES IT for his infinite "It was alrights" and "You could've done _____ a little bit harder" and "Oh baby yes baby yes!" (Ok, not the last one--my brain is just starting to get off-track.)

IT WAS ALRIGHT THIS, MOTHERFUCKER!

*trying to catch breath*

All that being said, I *did* also get the best massage I've had the pleasure of experiencing in class about two hours prior to Captain Bologna-Fingers' massage. The girl's hands were like butter, she pressed on some reflexology point in my big-toe that just made my body melt, and if I could've, I would've fallen asleep. Much much much better than the Man with Ten Sharks for Fingers.

Sincerely,
Woman Who Named One of Her Cat's Toys "Creepy Frog Man Bear" and Can't Stop Laughing Whenever She Refers to It as That
(aka. Sweet Lame-Ass McGee)

Inappropriate!

I've been lax at posting here over the past week, mainly because I've been out of town, and when I have been in town, I've been busy studying my ass off for two quizzes this week. But I'm back. At least for a brief verbal jaunt.

Last Wednesday, we learned how to give chair massages in my Massage II class. Our instructor played a video and we followed along, using the techniques demonstrated to give our partner a massage.

Problem #1 with the video: the massage therapist in the video was *gross* as all get-out--I noticed this during the second run... He had immensely hairy arms, and he had like two or three disgustingly red open sores on his arms and the back of his hands. Exactly the kind of massage therapist I want fondling me!

Problem #2: Sometimes the MT would tell us to do a certain stroke *AND THEN WOULDN'T DO IT.* Other times, he breezed through stuff at super-human speeds, so it was difficult to keep up.

So when T____ (my partner) was practicing on me, at one point she found herself falling significantly behind the pacing of the video--she was still working on my hands and he was already back up to the shoulders. "Oh crap," she muttered. "He's going way too fast. I'm just gonna have to give you a quickie."

The last sentence, like all inappropriate sentences, managed to be blurted loudly into a black-hole of quiet that of course had suddenly filled the room. I popped my head out of the face-rest to stare at her, and T____ looked at me with an expression of shocked horror, and then we of course both started giggling with that slap-happy mania that comes with sitting through 6 hours of class on a workday, the 10pm hour quickly slipping up on your tired and cracked-out brain. We laughed uncontrollably for like five minutes--thankfully the Massage Nazi had stepped out of the room, otherwise we would've been up shit creek.

As we left, I was tempted to shout down the hallway at her, "Thanks for the quickie, T____!" But I suspect she would have been mortified. And plus, she never did follow through on her proposition...

*SIGH*

My ex-Marine massage instructor this semester makes PowerPoint presentations that feature really generic animated clip-art but which he treats with utmost seriousness, and occasionally when they come on the screen, I catch his eyes flitting about the room, seeking out some sign of approval or appreciation.

This makes me wanna sit him down on my lap and gently pet his hair and tell him he's pretty.

Armpit Poodles

So as I've mentioned before, I sweat like a pig when giving a really vigorous massage. This is exacerbated by the fact that massage rooms are typically kept at a nice ripe 75°F and that we have to be wearing scrubs when giving massages (instead of, say, tank tops and panties). It is hot. Anyways, I literally sweat to the point somedays that my hair is clinging to my forehead and my eyeglasses keep sliding down my nose, and I SMELL RIPE (at least to myself). This sweating is not unusual, as others have complained of the same.

So my question is this:

Do I shave ye ol' armpit hair in the hopes of at least partially combatting this problem?

CONS: I like my armpit poodles--they keep me in-line, they are a constant reminder to rise above self-consciousness, they serve as a visual reminder to myself not to give a shit about what other people think about me, they are my f- you to the patriarchy (or at least to those who are scared o' hairy chicks), and I just find them kinda sexy and rebellious, so the thought of chopping them is none too appealing. But PROS: MOTHER OF GOD do I get sweaty and ripe-smelling while massaging, and I suspect that cutting them off will help to at least cut the throat of some of the stink that feels like it emanates off me with those little stink-trills (i.e. ξξξ) like in the cartoons.

To shave the pits, or not shave the pits: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous body odor,
Or to take armpits against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end the stench?

What thinkest ye?

Driving home after giving a successful and inspired 45-minute massage, your sweaty armpit hair blowing in the (finally crisp) breeze skittering past your car windows while the sky lights up with a brilliant display of heat lightning that transforms into regular lightning as a cold front slams head-on into the heat-wave, knocking it out for the count:

PRICELESS.